Lung Capacity
by okay-christa
Summary: Set in the Webb films. After Harry asks Peter to find Spider-Man for him, Peter goes to visit him. He sees for himself how ill his friend is and it makes it hard for him to decide what to do about his blood. A one-shot about their friendship and difficult choices.


When Harry answers the door, he asks the question Peter expects:

"What did Spider-Man say?"

It's been a few days since their talk at Oscorp, and Peter's standing here at the entrance of Harry's home without having given him a call or text saying he wanted to come over. So yeah, Harry skips the small talk and his eyes brighten, waiting for Peter to tell him the news.

"No, no, I haven't talk to him yet. He hasn't been showing up lately, but I'm gonna do it. I just..." Peter says and looks at his feet. Shuffles them too. "I just wanted to see if you were doing okay."

"Right."

Peter doesn't hear any appreciation in Harry's tone. His friend eyes him, expression as colourless as his reply, probably figuring out if he really wants Peter there. They didn't end their last conversation on the best of terms, after all, with Peter being visibly reluctant to help him out.

"Come in," Harry says, opening the door wide. Peter takes this as a good sign. He steps in and slips off his backpack.

"So are you? Are you doing okay, I mean?" Peter says, then throws his hands up to cover his face. "Ah, nevermind, that was the stupidest question I could've asked. You're dying, you aren't gonna be okay - God, I don't know why I asked that, sorry about that, man."

"Well, you're right. I'm dying so I'm not okay."

Harry's stands in front of him stiff, upright, and defiant, a guard to his own being. It's just for a shard of a moment though until he bows his head and his shoulders relax, his resentment apparently easy to break through, Peter's relieved to know. It'd be self-destructive and stupid to block off the one person who cared about him.

"I can feel myself getting weak. Feels like something's at the bottom of my lungs."

Harry leads him down the main hall.

"Can I do anything for you?" Peter asks.

"Like what?"

"I don't know - make you a meal, go out to a movie. Just something to make your day easier. It's why I came here. I wanna help."

Harry stops walking and places his hand on Peter's forearm.

"Peter, there's one thing, one _big _thing I want you to do: Act like I'm not dying. Be normal around me."

"Okay, yeah. Yeah, I can do that," Peter says hurriedly. He's a little embarrassed that he didn't think it through, that a dying person might not want to be treated special, that they'd want the world they're used to to keep moving around them.

"Besides," Harry says and a smile creeps up across his face. "Can you even cook? I don't want a pathetic bowl of Kraft Dinner or a peanut butter sandwich as my supper."

"Hey, those things are great, man. Don't rag on them! I bet you're used to expensive stuff, imported from Europe or something. Maybe you eat rubies."

"Yeah. For dessert."

"For your main course then, is it... diamonds? Am I right about that?"

"No, it's emeralds, actually. They're healthier."

"That's what I hear. All the medical journals say they prevent heart disease."

Harry leads him to what Peter's gonna go ahead call the living room. He's pretty sure in a place like this, it's called something fancier like a "drawing room"or "lounge" something. They sit down across from each other. Harry seems grateful to be on the couch again, sighing and happily submitting to the depths of the cushions.

They update each other on the usual goings-on - Menken's an ass, and Peter's getting As in chemistry. In the first lapse of conversation between them, Peter peers around the room - he can't wrap his head around how anyone can live in such an assault of Art Deco - and sees a briefcase propped up against the arm of the couch. It's crisp and sheer black, the clutches golden.

"I've got one of those," Peter says. "It was my dad's. It looks nothing like that though."

"I got it from Paris."

"Wow, Paris?"

"Yeah."

"Who'd you go there with?"

"A couple of my friends from boarding school... Well, former friends."

"What happened?"

Harry peers at his hand and absently brushes a light rash below his thumb, the second trace of the sickness Peter's seen on him, the first being the welt on his neck. "They turned out to be like everyone else. Leeches, you know?"

Peter snorts. "Isn't everyone at boarding school rich?"

"Yeah, and then it becomes a competition of who's the most loaded," Harry says. "I was at the top, and it's weird how it works because it's the guys who barely have the money for the school who try to be friends with you. They wanted to follow me around on trips, to go to all these special events I'd get invited to..."

Harry smirks and shakes his head.

"It's probably good you got rid of 'em then," Peter says. He considers the briefcase again - Parisian, probably over a thousand dollars. And what about that three-piece suit Harry wore at the shore the other day? Probably from Rome. Made by Venus the goddess of beauty herself. Peter's not bitter about it, just amused by wide gap between his stuff and Harry's.

"You know, when we were kids it didn't even occur to me that you had a lot of money," Peter adds.

"Yeah, kids don't think about things like that."

"Even when you'd tell me about all the new video games you got or the couple times I came over to your place and saw how big it was, I didn't realize it."

"That house on Brodine Avenue?"

"Yeah. That was the coolest house," Peter says.

"I liked yours better, actually. It was... It was..."

"Cozy?" Peter says and chuckles because of course a place like his and Aunt May's would be dubbed as _cozy _by a rich guy.

"That and... not empty and quiet."

The weight behind Harry's words trips him up, and he falters further when he remembers Harry throwing a fit once when the nanny picked him up.

"You did like it there," Peter says. "I remember once when you visited, you were -"

Harry was in the living room. He was stuffing his face in the cushions of Uncle Ben's armchair, yelling at his nanny, "Daddy isn't even home! He's never home! I want to _stay here_."

"Um..."

"What?"

"Never mind," Peter says, shaking his head like a rattle. He'll save his friend the embarrassment and go to safer territory. "Anyway, I remember you had a huge balcony attached to your room. That was awesome."

"Oh yeah!"

"And there was the pool," Peter adds. "That's where I first learned to swim. You and your nanny taught me."

Harry starts chuckling. "I remember that because I regretted that we ever taught you. I couldn't laugh at your _Lion King_ water wings anymore."

Peter cringes at the memory, but has something up his sleeve. "I know you wouldn't be laughing if they were, say, _Beauty and the Beast _water wings."

"Oh God! I was hoping you forgot that."

"I think you made me watch that movie with you seven times."

"Hey, it had great songs in it. And the beast was a tragic character. He was misunderstood and all alone in that giant castle... _and _there was talking furniture. Who doesn't want talking furniture?"

"It's good that you're the CEO of Oscorp then. Now you can make those dreams come true."

"Shut up, man," Harry says with a grin.

Once their chuckling tapers off, they both reposition themselves, making the couches creak. Harry straightens himself up more, leaning over and brushing his hair. With warmth and purpose, he looks right at Peter.

"I might be sick right now, but this is the first time in months - ever since my hand started feeling weird - that I've felt kind of... normal," Harry mutters. "You know, like... the future opened back up for me now that I know Spider-Man's blood will cure me. I can go back to imagining what my twenties will be like, my thirties... It's amazing. I can't explain it."

Peter gives him a tragically forced but convincing enough smile. It physically hurts his mouth to do it because this isn't simple. He's already established this with Harry - it's just not simple, and he's moving back and forth between the two options - to give the blood or keep it - and shrinks before stepping up and claiming one.

"Have you got a unit at Oscorp working on another cure for you?"

"Yeah, my dad set it up a long time ago. All they've come up with is medication to ease the symptoms. Look in there," Harry says and points to a tin canister on the coffee table between them.

Peter pops the top off. There's half-empty bottles of pills in there, about ten.

"Those were my dad's. They're for migraines. For sleep. To lessen sensitivity to the sun. For digestion. For pretty much everything," Harry says. "The solution was in the cross-species department this whole time. In Spider-Man."

"There must be _something _that can help you other than his blood. You know... just in case he refuses," Peter says, treading carefully.

And he wasn't careful enough. Harry stiffens up like before and states firmly, "He'll give his blood to me, Pete. I'm dying and he _saves _people from dying, right?"

Peter nods. He shouldn't stomp all over Harry's hope and confidence, should he? He honestly doesn't know, but going on instinct, it feels like it's the best thing to do, so he adds, "Yeah, yeah, you're right."

"If he thinks I'll turn into a giant noseless lizard, I'll bribe him. I'll give him a goddamn Hollywood mansion."

"Okay, so say he gives you the blood, but if it doesn't work... How long will you have to live?"

There's more hope with time, that's why Peter's asking. If Oscorp has a few years to figure things out, they can avoid the transfusion altogether.

"His blood will work. My body will handle it," Harry states.

"Okay," Peter says and throws his hands up in surrender.

Harry sighs. "You're smart, Peter," he says more softly. "But this isn't you're area of expertise. You don't know that this won't work."

"That's true..."

Nothing else to add, Harry re-arranges things on the coffee table, maybe just wanting something to do with his hands. _Forbes _and _The Daily Bugle _get set on top of each other, and a glass is moved onto a coaster. Right now, Peter's not too good at initiating new topics of conversation. He's distracted, totally distracted by what'll happen to Harry. Or what might _not _happen - a long life. Peter's not happy with the lack of information, he'd really like to know if there's time to find other solution, but he's not about to force it out of Harry and bring him down.

Then Harry starts smiling.

"Stop worrying about Spider-Man's blood. You should be excited 'cause I just got an idea."

"What idea?"

"What's one country you always wanted to see?"

Peter knows where he's going and shakes his head. "Oh wow, Harry. I couldn't afford something like that."

"I'll pay for everything. Even the souvenirs you'll get for your aunt."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Peter. You're my best friend," Harry says, leaning more into his space. "So where do you wanna go? You don't seem like a tropical kind of guy, so..."

"I - I dunno," Peter says.

"Japan. How about Japan? I've never been there."

"Well, I don't know, I'm not really set on anything." He's keeping it up in the air mostly because he doesn't want to plan something that they might never get to do.

"Next summer we'll go, all right? If by that time you've got a proper job at _The Daily Bugle_ selling those photos of yours, tell the boss you're going on vacation with me - Harry Osborn the fledging CEO of Oscorp. You can even take pictures of me during the trip. Those would sell."

"Sounds great, Harry," Peter says halfheartedly. Luckily Harry doesn't pick up on it. Harry says "good", grins, then lays himself on the couch.

"Turn on the T.V. if you want. I'm gonna sleep for a bit. I'm pretty tired now."

Peter switches the television to the local news. He's incapable of paying attention to it though, not with the thought of Harry's disease making its way through his body and his brash confidence damaging him further.

He decides on doing some homework. There's a couple chapters of his microbiology textbook to read, and so he heads over to the entrance for his school bag. Before getting there, he slips into the kitchen, wanting a drink. He doesn't feel it's presumptuous of him to grab something from the fridge.

Chrome is pretty much everywhere in the kitchen, and things are sparse - there's no dishes on the counters, no bills or newspapers, coasters, cutting boards, no, nothing that constitutes as clutter. There isn't enough people in the place to use things, then to leave the evidence that they were there, filling some of the space in Harry's home. Really, the only things out are in the sink. In it, a single mug and a single plate rest against each other. The loneliness is tangible here.

And when Peter walks back to the couches with his back pack, he can feel the size of the place. It's not his special senses either. Anybody could walk in here and know that there are a lot of walls, and between them, emptiness - air that no one is there to breathe in and out, or to brush through and make the curtains flutter. Peter feels even worse for Harry.

As Peter opens up his textbook, Harry coughs a few times. He stops for a few seconds and starts up again. He caresses his bare arms and lays a hand at the side of his ribs as though it would steady the lungs beneath. Peter passes him his glass of water. Harry mumbles a thank you before drinking from it.

Peter's gotten through a half a chapter of his book when Harry coughs again. His whole body jolts from the force, right to his toes.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks and repeats the process from before - hands Harry the glass, and Harry drinks from it.

Harry splutters it out, dampening his cotton grey shirt. His hacking continues. It's dry but deep, taking a full breath. Harry covers his mouth, rises from the couch and walks briskly down the hall.

Peter follows him with the water. In the bathroom, Harry bows over a large sink, hands pressed on either side.

Peter realizes that Harry was holding back until now because the coughing becomes violent. The air heaves itself out of him, sharp and biting.

Between every hack, Harry winces and sways on the spot. Peter asks if he should call the hospital, but he shakes his head, then into the sink, he gags. Something greenish splashes down from his mouth, sudden enough that drops fling out and dirty the porcelain counter and Harry's shirt.

The coughing and the spewing goes on for five minutes. Peter is seriously worried that Harry could snap a vertebrae or burst his ribcage from the force. There's nothing for him to do about it though, besides put a hand on Harry's back, but Harry is too distracted to know that it's there for it to be any comfort at all.

His friend goes quiet. He keeps himself arched over the sink as he steadies his breath. Peter points to the glass of water he brought. Harry uses it to clean out his mouth, swishing it around and spitting it out - a yellowish-green liquid now.

"I'm gonna get you another shirt," Peter says. "Is that all right with you?"

Harry nods.

Peter comes back with a top that's soft and black. Harry peels his dirty one off and then another shock hits Peter. Nested beneath Harry's right shoulder blade is another patch of boiled, rippled skin. This disease is has gotten through more of Harry's body than Peter thought.

They head back to the lounge. Peter speeds ahead of him to fix the couch up, so the pillows are in place and a light blanket is straightened out, saved from being a confusing ball of rumples. Harry gratefully lays down.

He gets his phone and starts texting.

"I'm gonna stay here for the night, if that's okay with you," Peter says.

"You don't have to," Harry croaks out.

"I wanna be here, in case you get worse during the night."

"If you want."

"Then I'm staying."

Harry eyes flicker downwards in thought. Peter doesn't know what that means exactly, but his attention soon returns to his phone. Peter notices it's a challenge for him to press the screen - his hands quake. God, this can't be a symptom of the illness, this guy is _scared._

Harry curses and extends the phone to him. "Can you text my assistant Felicia for me? Tell her to book me a doctor's appointment and to make it the first thing on my schedule. They'll write me a prescription."

Peter does this with satisfaction - he gets to be useful, finally. After he gives the phone back to Harry, the place is quiet again. Harry's folded up on his side, looking down at the floor. His hands lock into each other against his chest, but Peter can still see his fingers shaking.

Harry's expression sours. "I guess..." he mutters, his voice unfailingly suppressed. "I guess deep down, I know there's still a good chance I'm gonna die."

"I wish we could be sure you won't. I really, really wish that," he says. He practically sounds hysterical in comparison to Harry's tone, but so much more honest.

Harry closes his eyes. Peter knows other ways he can be helpful, so he goes to the bathroom and runs the bath. He tosses Harry's discarded grey shirt in there.

Whatever came out of Harry stains the water.

Peter hesitates. Not because he's nauseated by the substance - it's because there's a shocking amount of it. Solid, contaminated colours drifting toward the porcelain. The greens don't quite dissolve into a lighter shade. The sick is segments of thick, slippery gunk, turning the bath into a sewer.

He starts wringing out the shirt. He needs the sick to come out - he really, really needs it to come out. Or everything else will be dirtied because this is where struggle starts, in the muck caught in the twists of fabric.

Peter dunks the shirt in a second time and a new gush of green seeps into the water. The veins in his forearms swell as he balls up the shirt and wrings it out again.

Let the sick be wiped away. He keeps at it, loading the water with soaps, soaking the shirt then forcing the water out. If it can be wiped away, things will be fine.

One more time, two more times in water, then three more times to make sure there's nothing between the fibres. He and Harry are depending on this.

He spreads the shirt out for inspection.

The green has held on.

It shouldn't be a big deal, Peter is well aware of this. It's a goddamn piece of fabric. No matter how clean it could've gotten, Harry's disease will stay the course, that's all there is to it, and Peter sorta wants to scream about it.

There'll be more coughing fits like these and more hours spent on the couch until Harry has to have tubes streaming out of his arms, and that's when he'll be moved to a bed. Rashes and welts will score his skin and they'll make it hard for him to bend his joints without tearing them open, and all the medication will create a haze over his mind and the only thought that'll be clear to him is that his life is finishing up way too early, and that through all this, he'll only have Peter. He'll have had no time to connect with other people, feel cared for and complete, to be totally separated from his fatherless childhood and false friends. Peter doesn't wanna see Harry leave the world like that. And to be honest, Peter doesn't wanna see Harry leave him.

This vision makes him do a u-turn, and in this new direction, he sees a place where everything can be okay, where there's Japan up ahead and lakes for them to skip rocks on. It'll only happen if Peter gives the blood. It's not guaranteed they'll get actually get there, but the other direction guarantees there'll be nothing good for them.

Peter goes out into the hall. He's going to tell Harry who he is and that he's his cure, he's his blessing. This is compassion.

Harry's still on his side, dozing.

"Harry... Harry..." Peter mutters, setting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I wanna tell you something."

Harry turns himself onto his back, slow and careful like the blanket on him could crush him if he doesn't angle himself right. Peter kneels beside the couch, keeping his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"What is it?"

Peter is probably looking into Harry's eyes overly sincerely right now. He can't help it, and he can't help the jumble of words that are about to come out of his mouth:

"I gotta - I gotta tell you this. It's important for me and important for you. I just - I couldn't say it right away because of - because _stuff_, you know? Everything's so complicated and I can't - I can't deal with it well and I -"

"Pete, what are you trying to say?"

Peter pauses to gather himself. Harry stares him down.

"I'm..."

Then the clarity that drove his final decision goes back to being obscure, and once more, he can't see where he's going. He suddenly sees himself as a whole - a caring friend, and a protector of everyone, and these two identities don't work together. He thought they could and realized that compassion and desperation brings misjudgment along for the ride.

With a small disclosure - "I'm Spider-Man" - Harry will live, and it's a trade-off of one life for a dozen deaths or even hundreds. And yeah, it might not happen, but keeping the blood from Harry makes it a certainty that no one will die.

So Peter slips his hand down to Harry's wrist, squeezes it, and says, "I'm your best friend" because goddamn it, since he can't save him, he's going to make him feel safe and less alone and loved. That's the best thing he can do here.

"If things don't work out, I'm here for you," Peter says. "I'll take care of you if no one else will."

Harry looks at Peter, perplexed yet amused. At the very corner of his smirk, there's a little bit of fondness there too.

"You're so... sappy," he says.

"You have to be sappy sometimes."

"Well... thank you," Harry says. "I might not be sure about Spider-Man's blood curing me... but I'm sure about you, Pete. Whatever happens, at least I've got you, right?"

"Yeah," Peter says, smiling back at his friend. "You've got me."

Like Harry, he's sure.


End file.
